


I Don't Remember

by LightDarkPheonix



Series: Sherlock 1000k+ ficlets [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Fail-horror, Horror, Implied Dismemberment, Implied Murder, Implied Relationships, Implied Serial Killings, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Violence, Incest, Inspired by Lovecraft, Lovecraftian, Lovecraftianish, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Male Character, POV Third Person, Present Tense, Referenced Gore, Sibling Incest, Unreliable Narrator, fail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:59:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2038119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightDarkPheonix/pseuds/LightDarkPheonix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It starts slowly. Then it speeds up, tilting the world 180 degrees. Sherlock gets and staggers over to his violin. It’s sitting on the bedside table, he’s fairly certain. He grasps it in quick, jerky motions, playing frantic notes that don’t quite seem to connect to each other.</em>
  <br/>
  <em> John is out.</em>
  <br/>
  <em> Right?</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Remember

It starts slowly. Then it speeds up, tilting the world 180 degrees. Sherlock gets and staggers over to his violin. It’s sitting on the bedside table, he’s fairly certain. He grasps it in quick, jerky motions, playing frantic notes that don’t quite seem to connect to each other.

John is out.

Right?

Sherlock looks around, blinking at sudden light. The world looks a bit wrong. Or very wrong. All of wrong?

Who is John? Why did that name spring to his mind suddenly? He lives alone, and plays his violin. Why would he do anything else. 

Sherlock shakes his head, and the world tilts 20 degrees to the left and he screams. Long syllables that don’t quite go past his throat but tear at it anyway, ones that don’t make sense, and when they do shouldn’t. He does that a lot, he remembers. He remembers that, even as his other memories seem to be merging together. 

John. 

John is important. He exists... (ed)? Past tense, dead murdered, that’s why he’s alone in the apartment. 

The violin is still playing, notes being torn from the strings that aren’t quite right, too high or too low for the instrument to play naturally. 

The piano is there, notes playing as well.

Mycroft? Mycroft. Mycroft. Brother, right? No, lover. Mycroft is his lover, Sherlock knows that. One of the few things he knows for certain. The violin drops from his suddenly limp hands. It clatters, doesn’t break even though it should. The piano stops. 

Not good.

Mycroft’s lips are on his own. Groans, bodies flush against each other even as the world tilts on itself.

Hard.

Ground. Grass now, twin brothers looking at the stars in the sky. The  younger one, dark haired and long limbed, screams. The two of them are frozen in place as the stars go out. 

Writhing, clutching each other, gripped in each others arms. 

Arms? 

Does he have arms, does he have two, or one or three or four?

He isn’t sure, all he knows is that he and Mycroft are kissing, lips on lips, even as thing don’t seem quite right.

John is important. Right?

He’s dead, murdered.

The smiling god asked, Sherlock and Mycroft gave, playing the events of the violin and piano, blood is everywhere.

_My best friend is dead!_ Sherlock screams this into his brother’s chest, strong fingers grip his hair and they are kissing again. More frantic now, last moments of sanity fleeing from their grasp like minnows from little children. Even as they grasp for it, fingers searching, groping, seeking, it slips from them, leaving them with nothing but ripples in their fingers.

The smiling god promised Sherlock love, Mycroft love. The ability to live, freely and openly, the other, without rejection, each making deal without the other knowing.

_Smile for the camera!_ , a brown haired woman tells her scowling younger son. He shuffles his bare toes in the sand and does. Only his brother would notice how insincere the gesture is, and the red-haired one isn’t there to notice, working in a faraway city. Mycroft grew up, moved, and doesn’t care for his brother, seven years his junior, anymore.

Or was Sherlock the oldest, the shame because he’s seven years older than Mycroft and still at home, while his perfect little brother has gone on and gotten himself a job? Years of bitterness suddenly appear, and he stares, confused, because suddenly the memories in his head don’t match up with his life anymore.

Who was the older brother, the pale eyed ginger with few words but many thoughts, or the frantic black haired one, with long limbs and so many thoughts and words that they don’t fit inside his head sometimes?

Sherlock groans and he holds his head in his hands. He can’t remember, can’t remember.

In frustration he grabs Mycroft roughly by the shoulder and bites down on his arm, drawing blood with his teeth, tasting copper.

Mycroft jerks his arm back and shoves Sherlock across the floor, sending him tumbling in a heap. He presses a hand to the bite and brings it in from of his face, pale eyes staring without seeing. 

The wound has already healed, leaving not even a red smudge to mark where it had been.

As Sherlock gets up, he notices Mycroft has begun cleaning his hand with his tongue, lapping up the slowly coagulating droplets.

_It doesn’t taste like blood_ , he says.

The silence is not deafening. It’s quiet in a way that blanks out even thoughts, and then it cracks, almost audibly. Mycroft stares at his hand, and the fear he might of felt at the realization that there is no copper running through his veins is gone.

Fear? 

Fear. Not at this though, the fear never existed, why should it? Blood is just a sluggish liquid, after all. It looks pretty, but it is not truly vital to continued life.

The silence does that, a lot, it comes and cracks deep inside the brothers, removing their souls piece by piece by piece. 

_I don’t remember_. Sherlock answers. There is a rapidly fading bruise on Sherlock’s cheek, from where Mycroft is fairly certain he hit him. 

Someone screams, and Sherlock turns. Mycroft follows his gaze and they remember where they are. They’re in a bastardized operating theater, the person on the table is missing part of an arm, from his elbow to his wrist. The hand is moving independently.

The brothers watch blankly as the flailing worsens, and then the thing vanishes.

They can hear someone(thing) chewing.

The first time it happened, they were horrified. 

_This isn’t worth it!!_ Sherlock had thought _What are we doing?!!_ Mycroft had thought. 

The silence descended then, and the first cracks started appearing. The first pieces of soul started slipping away.

Sherlock finds himself straddling Mycroft, the two of them stripped to the waist. He is holding a heart, oddly solid in his hand, feebly pumping still. 

There is no sign on Mycroft’s chest of what Sherlock assumes he has just done, and he’s smiling, a vacant, sort of blissful smile.

What feels like seconds later, he sees Mycroft straddling him, staring blankly at a heart Sherlock knew it was it. The knowledge he was missing his heart filled him with a strange sort of euphoria. He could feel the smiling god pumping his blood for him. 

He breaths out, and they’re kissing, the hearts gone, forgotten. 

It was gone.

All gone.

They had the two of them, always there, at least.

His eyes, both their eyes, were pale, blink looking. Not that they noticed that.

They could still see. 

The smiling god sees for them, though they don’t always remember that.

Mycroft doesn’t quite remember which brother he is. Is the the detective, or the former government official, fired when he stopped showing up?

Sometimes, he remembers what he is doing, and he starts gasping for breath as the smiling god stops acting as his heart and lungs. 

He screams, and the world shatters again.

The world smiles again, and he presses a gentle kiss to his husband’s lips.

All is well. All is perfect, in every way, and as it should be. Perfect.


End file.
